16
#176 – WSOP #25 – Twilight in Girltown
Or, In the Belly (Ring) of the Beast
Thomas Wolfe notwithstanding, you can go home again. At least, I was determined to try. After being pelted with at least 75 angry e-mails and observer chat flames for turning down the spare bedroom in the house occupied by Clonie Gowen and Shannon Elizabeth for the World Series of Poker, I was going to make an attempt to set things right (at least by Guy Standards). Incidentally, fellas, the offer was non-transferable, so stop asking me if they’ll let YOU have a sleepover. But rest easy with the knowledge that if I accommodated every request, that bedroom would be more crowded with desperate men than a Turkish prison.
I was going to try to get back into their good graces and, hopefully, their extra bedroom. But it wouldn’t be easy. That was a limited-time offer, occasioned at least in part by pity that they may no longer feel toward a guy now driving a shiny(-windowed) Mercedes and safely ensconced in a suite at the Rio.
I finagled a dinner invitation, however, and attempted to take it from there. I drove to their house after doing a radio interview for Lou Krieger’s and Amy Calistri’s radio show at Binions. Talk about going from hell to heaven. Not even Lou and Amy showed up in person at Binions. Running late for the interview, I found the Binions parking garage was full and had to park at a metered space on Casino Center, just down the block from The Fremont Street Experience, a/k/a Pickpocket’s Paradise. Searching for spare change for the meter, a man introducing himself as a preacher asked ME for some spare change. In exchange for a five dollar “donation,” I found myself with six quarters. “Trust in God,” he told me, which I always do, though I took my navigation system with me for just in case.
I arrived at the house just as Clonie and Shannon were driving up from their yoga session. They both announced, “We have to take a shower.” I told them that I had just returned from Binions, which is plenty filthy, but no offer was forthcoming so I let the matter drop.
They invited me to join them for a future yoga session and were surprised when I quickly accepted.
“But you have to wear underwear,” Clonie added.
I wondered about the specificity of her requirement. Did she hear something? Reflexively, I looked down to make sure everything was in its proper order.
Apparently, in the class from which they had just returned, one fella appeared sans underwear, and some of the positions made his commando status glaringly apparent. And with just five people in the class, there was no place for Clonie and Shannon to hide. They could probably HEAR that he wasn’t wearing underwear.
Clonie tried and failed to get Shannon to play badugi. Shannon tried and failed to get Clonie to play razz. My plot to convince them to ditch the chip set and play for articles of clothing, therefore, died quietly.
The house was a tidy two-story affair with a nice backyard featuring a large grill, a Jacuzzi, and a connected swimming pool.
We might have gone swimming except Shannon earlier turned up the heat on the Jacuzzi and Clonie thought it made the pool too hot to swim. I changed into trunks anyway, hoping to move things along.
Nope.
Katie L. and her boyfriend Danny made a delicious dinner – salad, spaghetti with vegetarian “meatballs” (which would have fooled me, especially given the dubious contents of the average “meat” meatball). Danny also expertly grilled shrimp and chicken on the barbecue, despite the fact that this was the first time the grill had been used and Clonie nearly immolated herself trying to light it. I presumptively shouldn’t question the judgment of a Texas belle where barbecues are concerned, but she tried to “microwave” the process by simultaneously igniting the electric starter and shoving a lighter into the bottom of the gas grill.
The only sour element of the meal came toward the end, when I heard about the THREE bedrooms upstairs and counted the number of ladies present, presuming correctly one per bedroom.
Because my goal has always – and explicitly – been to establish myself as a high-maintenance houseguest in Girltown but never to charm my way into one of those occupied beds (as if it was MY choice), this spelled curtains for my hopes of domestic bliss at the hands of hostesses Gowen and Elizabeth.
Surely there was hidden away a fourth bedroom upstairs from which I could order breakfast in bed. On the flimsiest of diversions – a wine glass I “accidentally” shattered – I snuck away from the kitchen and up the stairs.
There was an open loft with, I gathered, Shannon Elizabeth’s computer. The screen showed World Series of Poker content – but not mine. One bedroom clearly displayed Katiestuff. No help there.
One door was forbiddingly closed. Shannon’s room, I correctly deduced.
The only other door was ajar and was clearly Clonie Gowen’s bedroom – Full Tilt baseball caps on the floor near the door. Damn, no room at the inn.
As I was about to dejectedly slink downstairs, I decided there wouldn’t be any harm in taking a peek inside Clonie’s boudior. If I couldn’t stay the night, at least I could gather material for some future fictional description of a night in poker paradise.
Black silk pillow case (one of Clonie’s beauty secrets, which I already knew). Ironing board with a pair of white slacks. 2 empty water bottles. An alarm clock flashing 5:33. A magazine named “The Star” with a chunky Brittany Spears on the cover. High-heeled shoes. Flip-flops. Contents of a gift bag from a Nevada Cancer Institute charity event – lots and lots of skin-care products; nothing for me to steal. A pink and white polka dot thong.
Hello.
Something for a newly-established pervert wing of my collection of pilfered poker paraphernalia?
As I debated this “acquisition,” I heard the tapping of keys on the loft computer. Then Shannon’s voice, “Oh my god -”
Oh my god.
“- Michael Binger has a lot of chips in the $5,000 No-Limit Hold ‘em. It looks like there are just 15 players left.”
I disentangled myself from Clonie’s underpants – damning evidence if ever there was any – and hid in the shower.
If there was larceny in my heart, my lack of brains kept me honest. I was not cut out for a life of crime, nor built for one of stealth.
I was now trapped in Clonie Gowen’s shower, which, by the way, is a transparent enclosure, not exactly offering cover. To make matters worse, when I leaned against the heavy wire accessories rack, I discovered it couldn’t support my weight and it gave way with a resounding crash.
Immediately, there was much conversation downstairs, which I ignored as I composed a story to explain my imminent discovery. I would say I was taking a shower to wash away the filth of Binions. Yeah.
With my clothes on. With no water running. With Clonie’s undies in my hand. (Crap, how did they get back there?)
I heard footfalls. Loud voices. I braced for discovery but … nothing. After several moments, I ventured out of my glass-enclosed cell.
The calvary had arrived in the form of Cate Williamson, who was being greeted by hugs and squeals of delight at the pieces of jewelry she and Robert had designed and which she was now showing around.
I was able to quietly join the group, making my greeting to Cate the most excited and heartfelt among us. I have always regarded Cate Williamson, in close contention with her husband and sister-in-law, among the nicest people I have ever met in poker. From this day forward, she is the undisputed number 1.
And let’s face it, Clonie Gowen, Shannon Elizabeth, and Katie L have to take pretty high positions on the same list, even if they don’t fully know why.
